


Douglas Mountain

by FlatlandDan



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:36:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlatlandDan/pseuds/FlatlandDan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint goes up a mountain.<br/>Clint goes down a mountain.<br/>He's pretty surprised about what happens after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Douglas Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "All is calm, all is bright"
> 
> With thanks to my lovely beta readers, pollyrepeat and lanyon and practically my entire twitter feed who went above and beyond with the encouragement.

 

At the age of 28, Clint Barton realised that, if Christmas made him cagey, it made the people around him downright nervous.  He’d made no secret of his crappy past, horrible association with anything to do with family and general dislike of social situations that required him to pretend he knew social norms.  The people around him made no secret of the fact that they spent the entire month thinking they had put their foot halfway down their throat when they wished him a Merry Christmas.

He’d tried his best, when he’d joined SHIELD. He’d gone to the Christmas parties, spent hours looking for the perfect Secret Santa present, eaten the canteen attempts at festive favourites and just generally attempted not to suck the Christmas cheer out of every room he went into.  But he couldn’t talk about the festive traditions he was looking forward to, or plans with his family or even really enunciate what he wanted for Christmas.  The quiet sympathy grew over the years until he noticed he would walk into a room and the conversation would change.  It stressed him.  It stressed them.

Clint Barton didn’t hate Christmas, but he’d be damned if he could convince anyone else of that.  

He took the easy option.  No question about it.  Walked into Phil’s office and begged for an overseas assignment that would run over the two weeks most associated with Christmas.  Phil had sighed, rolled his eyes, but produced a nice little three week surveillance assignment that sent him merrily trailing a scientist through the Cambodian mangroves.  By the time he got back, the eggnog in his fridge had gone off and there wasn’t a sympathetic smile in sight (once the bruises had faded).  The next year, Phil had something already lined up for him and so the tradition had continued until this year when Phil wasn’t dead but might as well be for all the time he had for Clint. He wasn’t bitter. Not really.  He and Natasha had giggled their way through the meeting between the three of them that included Phil telling them they were all grown up and the resources the Avengers could offer them more than replaced him. It was the truth. The days of three person ops had largely been replaced with press meetings and saving the world by that time.  They had been compromised, their faces splashed over newspapers and the television for months, and SHIELD was reluctant put them in the field for anything but the most delicate of situations.  So they had promised Phil they would take their vitamins, let him know the gossip and, when he was back in NYC, they would go out for a beer.  

Clint wasn’t bitter at all but that didn’t mean he didn’t miss the guy.

This year was both better and worse.  Wonderfully, he was firmly bunked off base now with a room in the building zone designated Avengers Tower and a Brooklyn apartment which was, ironically, one block away from Steve’s bolthole. They met for coffee sometimes, at first inadvertently and then when they both wanted quiet company while reading.  Steve didn’t approve of him doing classified paperwork in public and Clint didn’t approve of Steve’s growing collection of drawings of him drinking coffee and glaring at the monitor, but they got along well enough. The benefits of being off base were that he only had to deal with the sympathy of about ten people and most of them were just as fucked up as he was.  There was also a side benefit that no one recoiled from him like he was possessed by an alien god, which was nice.

But the big downside, the biggest, deal breaking downside, was the tiptoeing around what the hell everyone was going to do for Christmas without causing serious meltdowns.  Two weeks of tentative note leaving and non-aggressive holiday suggestions later and three days before Christmas, Clint cracked and headed to the Helicarrier. Apparently Phil  left notes for Christmas, because Clint had barely started lurking in front of Hill’s office before she opened the door and thrust a briefing package into his hands.  She even threw in the traditional eye roll, despite having her cell phone jammed between her head and shoulder.  It was a relief to open and see a beautiful two weeks of surveillance up Douglas Mountain, Colorado in front of him.  It was simple, well below his pay grade and, most importantly, involved arctic gear and no one else.

He hummed Christmas carols to himself as he packed a small bag in his room at the tower, smiled a little sadly as he left the box with a little fox charm under the tree for Tasha.  The tree was beautiful, a giant hulk-sized mass that towered over everyone with a riotous collection of ornaments.  They hadn’t really had time to decorate it together, like Pepper had charmingly suggested they might, but over the last two days Clint had noticed little personal augmentations to the main ornaments showing up. He’d liked Bruce’s giant psychedelic folding star from India, Steve’s glass birds and Tasha’s wispy grass angel. The general nonchalant attitude to Thor hanging Mjölnir from the tree had been a definite highlight. He looked around and felt an awful lot like a Christmas ghost, look in on someone elses life.  The potential of this Christmas was there and maybe next year he would give it a go.  

He was still humming Christmas tunes when he hit up R&D to collect his camouflage tent and the newest issue cold weather gear, still humming when he sauntered onto the Quinjet and settled in next to the pilot. They exchanged fist bumps but no words.  Clint’s mission was  classified and the pilot pool had long ago learned it was just easier to fly in companionable silence. He passes the time playing the stupid bubble game until they are flying low over some woodlands and the pilot clears his throat very deliberately. Clint hums in acknowledgment and types out a last text message before he shoves his phone and wallet into an envelope and seals them.  The pilot will bring them safely home for him.

“Merry Christmas, Agent Watson,” he says as the back end of the plane opens and he gets ready to catapult himself and a sled full of supplies into the black.  Watson has the good grace to only look a little terrified at the situation he’s found himself in.

“You too, Agent Barton.  Ummm...break a metaphorical leg or something.” Clint likes Agent Watson because he is just as good at words as Clint is.  He smiles at Watson though before pulling his balaclava down, waiting for the _jump, jump, jump_ that actually is protocol, and pushing the sled out.  As he jumps he’s pretty sure he hears a _Merry Christmas_ follow him.

There are few things left that cause his heart to race as much as a night jump.  He resists the urge to whoop, barely, and watches as the clearing plateau appears in front of him.  He lands with a roll, the sled lands with a graceful thump and then minutes later he is heading out through the woods in snowshoes.  His destination is a spot with a nice overview of the town of Empire’s graveyard, about four miles away, and while it’ll take him a little bit longer thanks to the snow he doesn’t really mind.  He can feel the cold around him, his shoulders straining against the harness and the press of his sniper rifle parts against his body.  He can hear owls, his own breathing and the crackle of ice in the distance.  The moon peeks through the clouds, a scattering of stars accompanying it, and Clint knows he’s in a winter wonderland.

It finally feels a bit like Christmas.

\- - -

Clint wakes to the sound of a howling wolf on Christmas Eve, the mournful sound bouncing through across the mountain the same way his four times a day message of _Situation: Dull_ bounces its way through relay stations to The Hub.  It’s the fourth evening he’s been woken early to the sounds of the howl, and while at first it was charming now it just makes him a little lonely and missing something he can’t quite put into words.

“Shut up, Moon Moon,” he mumbles, rolling over in his sleeping bag and looking down the slope to the town below.  All is calm, and as the last rays of the sun disappear behind the mountains Clint shuffles upright and hops over to the makeshift chair he’s made out of equipment boxes and settles in for another eerily calm night of watching a graveyard.  In acknowledgement of the day, he’s saved his second favourite ration pack (the one with the maple syrup pudding thing) for dinner.

It’s dark when his infrared goggles pick up the lone figure trudging into the graveyard.  There is a part of him that thinks it’s a pretty sick fuck of bad guy to go grave robbing on Christmas Eve. There is another part of him, a part he doesn’t really want to acknowledge, that is thinking _Merry Christmas to me_.  The figure keeps walking, hand in pockets until it reaches the little hill in the middle of the graves when it stops and slowly turns around in a circle.  Clint is starting to think he’s been rumbled when the figure speaks.

“If you shoot me, Barton, I’m going to be really hacked off.”  Phil sounds annoyed, so Clint decides not to shoot him.  He does, however, fire one shot into the air to give Phil a direction to start walking in.  “Don’t give me that crap.  Pack up your gear and come down.  I’m sick and tired of sending you on hoax missions over Christmas when you have a perfectly good Tower to live in now.”

If Phil sounds annoyed, Clint feels livid as he packs up his camp, loads his sleigh and tramps down the side of the mountain.  Phil meets him half-way and grabs his pack off the top of the pile.   

“How many of these missions have been fake?” Clint asks him, unable to keep the sourness out of his voice.

“2008, last year and this one. Last year was because we thought we’d need you for Guadalajara and this year because we can’t risk you on something this dumb.”

“Since when is any of my work dumb?” Clint shoots back. “Oh yeah - since you apparently made it that way. What the fuck, Phil?” 

Phil lets out one of his long suffering sighs beside him and Clint wants to punch him in the head because where does he get off thinking that he can pull shit like this?  Clint puts on an extra burst of speed when they get past the treeline but Phil veers off. 

“The car is parked at the entrance,” he yells back.  Clint stops and lets the sled bang into his shins.  

“What makes you think I’d get in a car with you now?”  Phil stops at Clint’s words and turns around.  It’s the first time Clint’s seen him in months, since he got that plane of his, and he really didn’t want it to be like this.  He wanted beer and chicken wings and Phil to be wearing one of his grandpa sweaters that only he could pull off so Clint could tease him about getting old.  Instead he got a cold graveyard and a fight.  He feels the anger seep off him like the warmth is seeping out of his bones.

“Because you came down the mountain,” Phil tell him and Clint thinks he catches a bit of a smile playing on his lips.  It’s Clint’s turn to huff now as he puts his back and shoulders into getting the sled moving in the right direction.  Phil drops into place beside him and they trudge along until they are next to the car and loading everything in.  Normally, Clint would have been thrilled to see Lola but tonight it’s cold and Clint can’t help but think he would have been warmer in his R&D special on the mountain. No one says a word until they are inside and the car is making a valiant effort on the heating and the windows defrosting.  

“Fake missions?  Really?” Clint finally says, turning himself around in the passenger seat so he’s facing Phil.  

“I thought it was the best thing I could give you,” Phil replies sadly, and yeah, Clint feels like a bit of a dick for yelling at him.  “I had kinda hoped, with the Tower and the Avengers, that you might not need to escape.  This was a reserve one for last year.”

“Sorry I didn’t live up to your expectations.”  Phil rolls his eyes and turns the seat heaters on.

“Cut the emotional blackmail, Clint.  We both know you know you’ve already surpassed every expectation I ever had of you.  What happened to make you bolt?” Phil asks him and Clint feels himself settling down, the edge of uncertainty he’d been carrying for a while fading.

“Just seemed like it would be easier for them if I wasn’t around -” Phil interrupts him with a pfft and rolls his head so he can fix Clint with his patented ‘Enough-of-this-bullshit’ glare. Clint huffs back at him.  “Well it did, ok?  They didn’t need me rattling around like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.”

“The beautiful thing about the future is that you can change it, Clint.” Phil puts the car into drive and pulls off, quickly heading out of town and into the mountains.

“Where are we heading?” Clint asks him after a few miles.

“New York.”  Clint does a little bit of math in his head.

“That’s a 26 hour drive.” Phil doesn’t reply, just lets his face break into a grin.

“I had a few modifications done. Wait till we get out of the mountains.”

\- - -

“This is like some demented mix of Harry Potter and every Santa story I’ve heard,” Clint says, peering out of the window as they pass over Chicago.

“Better than your Grinch up Mr. Crumpet impression.  Keep an eye on the map, I have to watch for planes so you’re navigating.”

“Just keep driving until we hit Lake Erie.  I don’t get what the hurry is anyhow?”

“Waffles,” Phil says definitively and Clint gets an overwhelmingly sinking feeling that has nothing to do with the carplane changing altitude.   

“I’m not really sure…” he begins only to be cut off.

“Pepper called.  Then Tasha called. Then Captain America called.  They wanted to know what they had done wrong.”  Phil narrows his eyes and looks at the radar in front of him, making a small adjustment.  “So I said I would go pick you up and get you back in time for waffles.”

“I do like waffles,” Clint concedes. “But you know how I feel about Christmas.”

“You love it, I know.  Now take a nap.  It might make you fractionally less grumpy when we land.”

\- - -

Clint has to admit, the red and white lights that spell out Avengers on the tower do look pretty as they land.  And yeah, Tasha’s fierce hug where she pushes his face into the crook of his neck is comforting. But his favourite thing about getting back to the Tower is that Phil standing next to him.

\- - -

It’s 8 am on Christmas morning and Clint finds himself standing by the window in his room, a mug of instant coffee in one hand, his phone in the other and a slight frown on his face.  

 _I’m confused_ , he texts Coulson. 

_It’s pretty simple.  Come downstairs. Eat some waffles. Lurk around like one of those creepy Elfs on a Shelf. Eat some more food. Nap._

Clint taps out a reply. _I really don’t know about this._  

_Those are all things you’re good at.  These are all people you know. Stark has already burned the turkey so you’re missing all the fun._

\- - -

It’s 10 am on Christmas morning and Clint finds himself licking a stray bit of syrup off his hand, Tasha sprawled against him and taking up well over ¾ of the couch.  She’s wearing the little fox charm on her necklace and he’s wearing some sort of slipper sock things with grips on the bottom adorned with purple spots.  He can still hear swearing coming from the kitchen, the mix of Steve, Tony, Phil and Pepper trying to save the turkey makes him smile, and between the fire crackling and Tasha smushed against him he feels warmth spreading through him.  

Bruce has taken over the other couch, reading glasses perched on this nose, and he’s engrossed in a book.  There is a calm in this room that Clint didn’t think he’d find anywhere with people on Christmas day.

The door the kitchen swings open and Phil comes in, brandishing takeaway menus in his hand.

“Chinese?”

Clint can’t help but grin.

\- - -

It’s 4 pm on Christmas day and Clint has eating so much Chinese food that he’s in a food coma on the living room floor.  Phil is curled up in the fetal position next to him, his head on a pillow that Clint has unsuccessfully tried to steal twice.  

“That was a good idea, Agent.” Tony says from one of the couches.  

“I regret that last plate.” Bruce chimes in.

“I regret nothing!” Thor adds.  Tasha giggles from somewhere in the room.   Clint rolls over in a completely ungraceful way and manages to steal half of Phil’s pillow.

“So, what are we going to do with the 10 pounds of mashed potato I made?” Steve asks.  Clint doesn’t mind when his head hits the carpet, because the look on Phil’s face when he realises that in his post Chinese food haze he’s thrown a pillow and hit Captain America square in the face is pretty priceless.

\- - -

It’s 10 pm on Christmas day and it’s just the three of them, sat in Tasha’s room eating chicken wings and drinking beer.  

“So, you survived a Christmas with people,” Tasha gently bumps her shoulder against his, even as she teases him.

“Well, it seemed better than sitting on a hill on a fake mission,” Clint says, throwing a half hearted glare at Phil.

“Fake mission, real Christmas present. Potato, potato,” Phil replies, even as he’s stripping one of the chicken wings.

“I’d say I can’t believe that you made up missions for him, but I really can, “ Tasha says fondly.  “Right, I’ve had enough of the smell of food.  Take your chicken wings somewhere else, boys.”

Clint ends up with both the two open beer and the plate of wings and Phil ends up with the giant Tasha hug but Clint’s ok with that because they end up back in his apartment.

“Stark gave me a room but it seems stupid to mess it up and you have milk for coffee,” Phil is on his couch, pulling down the fleece Clint keeps on it and wrapping it around him.  “Besides, I’ve kind of missed you.  The new team is great but nobody understands existential pain like you and Tasha.”

“Are you having an existential crisis you’ve not told me about?” Clint asks, raising an eyebrow as he collects the empty bottles and chicken wing remains.

“Maybe I just wanted something I knew was real for Christmas this year.”

“Well, I missed you too.  Thanks for bringing your flying car to pick me up from the fake mission you sent me on as a Christmas present.  This didn’t suck as much as I thought it was going to.”

Phil’s eyes are closed, but Clint sees him smile and can’t help but smile back.

“You know I’ll always be there when you need me, no matter what team I’m on.  You’re family.”  Clint doesn’t actually know what to say in reply to that, and he feels the beginning of that awkwardness he gets when people talk about feelings.  Phil gets it though, and lets him off the hook, the way family does. “Merry Christmas, Clint.  Don’t eat all the chocolate you got. It’ll make you sick.”

“Merry Christmas, Phil.  I’m not making any promises,” Clint replies as he shuts off the light and heads to bed, Lindt chocolate Santa in hand.

It’s 11 pm on Christmas Day and, at the age of 38, Clint Barton realises that it finally feels like Christmas.

 


End file.
